A Hair Cut is a Hair Enhanced
by The Knitting Cinephile
Summary: This story answers the burning question: who cuts Sherlock's hair? *** Thank you for all of your reviews. They make me very happy! Please enjoy my simple and gentle story. ***


John was just finishing a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson when Sherlock came down the stairs. "Cuppa, love?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I'm off."

"Off where, then?"

"I'm off," replied Sherlock, pulling on his capeskin gloves, "to get my hair cut." And then he swept out the door.

"Haircut?" asked John, frowning. Mrs. Hudson shrugged and poured herself another cup. "I thought you cut his hair."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Oh, no, not me, dear. Although I wouldn't mind getting my hands into that mane of his."

John grinned. "Why, Mrs. Hudson!"

"What? I'm old enough to be his mother but I'm certainly not _dead_, John. They say that the older the violin, the sweeter the music."

John held up his teacup to his lips. "Sherlock does know his way around a violin, that's true," John murmured into his teacup, earning him a swat with the tea cozy.

"More treacle tart, dear? You're looking a little peaky lately."

Sherlock trotted down the front steps and seamlessly slid into the dark car waiting for him. The driver, familiar with Sherlock, took a quick look at him in the rearview mirror and merged the car into traffic. After a short but silent ride, the car entered an underground car park and pulled up to an innocuous set of steel double doors. Without a word, Sherlock exited the car and slid a card into the electronic slot, which was promptly rejected. With a sigh, Sherlock pressed and held the button on the intercom. There was a beep, and then a tinny female voice came from the speaker. "Yes?"

"Sherlock Holmes is here."

A pause. "One moment please." After the briefest of nanoseconds, Sherlock pressed and held down the button again. "I said, 'one moment please,' sir."

"And I said 'Sherlock Holmes is here', and we wouldn't have to have this delightful but unnecessary conversation if my card would just work."

Just at that moment, the double doors slid open, revealing Mycroft Holmes. "And speaking of unnecessary, you're not supposed to have a card, Sherlock." Mycroft plucked the card from Sherlock's hand. "Prunella Scales? That's not even original."

"Helen Shapiro was already taken." The two men entered the building, walking swiftly, shoulder to shoulder. "And why do I suddenly need an escort?"

"You've always needed an escort, Sherlock, you just refuse to be seen with one." Sherlock gave the quietest of snorts as he and his older brother walked quickly through the building. Coming through Mycroft's outer office, Mycroft told his secretary to hold his calls. He and Sherlock went into Mycroft's office, and Mycroft closed the door behind him. Appraising Sherlock's appearance, Mycroft said, "Yes, about two weeks overdue, I'd say."

"Your cases keep me busy."

"I'm just making an observation, Sherlock, there's no need to get cheeky." Mycroft pulled a stack of sheets from a credenza and spread one on the carpet, placing a tall stool in the center. Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, unbuttoned the first buttons of his shirt, and tucked his collar into his shirt. Sherlock sat on the stool, and Mycroft spread another sheet over his shoulders, tucking the edges into the collar of Sherlock's shirt. Mycroft then brought over a leather-wrapped tied roll to the desk. Unrolling it revealed a collection of shiny scissors and clippers. Picking up a spotlessly clean comb and a pair of scissors, Mycroft said, "Shall we, brother?"

"By all means, brother, if you've sharpened those."

"Done yesterday." Mycroft moved behind Sherlock and combed through his hair. "Yes, just a bit shorter all around, I think," said Mycroft softly. He dampened Sherlock's hair from a pitcher of water from the credenza, began sectioning Sherlock's hair, and set to cutting. Sherlock's mind drifted immediately to the past, and he closed his eyes.

He must have been somewhere between three and four years old, probably closer to four. Sherlock was aware that something had been going on in the house, but no one had told him precisely what. About a fortnight previously, Mummy had received a phone call that had made her cry, and then Mummy packed a bag and drove off to Gran and Granddads' house up in York. Mycroft was off at school, so it was just him and Father at the house, which was fun enough, because Father liked to play cribbage, and Sherlock always won because Father never counted properly. Then Father got a phone call from Mummy, and almost immediately afterward, Father had packed bags for the both of them, and they were in the other car heading to York as well. "Why are we going to York, Father?"

"Gran, your mother's mother … she was very sick, and she's gone to heaven, Sherlock."

"Oh."

"Do you understand what I mean, son?"

"Yes. It means that Gran has died and she's not coming back."

"Yes. It also means that your mother will be very sad, and so will Granddad, so there may be some tears and lots of adults running around and everyone trying to give you hugs, so I need you to be a good boy, okay, Sherlock?"

Sherlock understood. He didn't particularly like lots of hugs and he'd have to put up with them. But he certainly didn't like Mummy being sad and crying, so he figured that he could tolerate some hugs if it made Mummy feel better. He knew he'd be very sad if his Mummy died, so if Mummy's mother had died, she must be very sad indeed.

York was a long way from home, so Sherlock was glad to finally get to the old stone cottage of Gran and Granddads'. Gran had a very pretty garden, but it was getting colder, so there were hardly any flowers out now. Sherlock was wondering if Granddad was going to take over the gardening when Mummy came out of the house towards to car. As expected, she swept Sherlock up in a hug and a kiss. "Oh, I'm so glad you finally made it. I'm happy to see you."

"I'm sorry about Gran, Mummy."

"Such a sweet boy." She put Sherlock down and said to Father, "Are you up to driving out to pick up Mycroft? I've already called the school and gotten permission to take him out for a few days."

"Might as well get all the driving done today."

"I have to go visit the vicar and the funeral home; are you okay with visiting with Granddad while we're all out, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mummy." After all, what could he say? But Granddad was kind of a rough sort, and Sherlock really didn't know him all that well. What most people said about him was that Granddad was in the Arayeff, which was a source of pride, even though Sherlock was unsure what was so special about the Arayeff. He did like Granddads' study, which was full of big books and large models of aeroplanes. Sherlock's parents left him in the house, but Granddad was on the phone. Sherlock waited for a while for Granddad but he kept talking on the phone. Bored, Sherlock wandered into Granddads' study to look at the books. He liked to challenge himself with how many words he could read on the spines of the books. He would get particularly pleased with himself if he could read a whole title. Names were harder, though. He had just settled himself on the floor to read the book titles when he heard Granddad calling his name. "I'm in your study, Granddad!"

After a few moments, Sherlock heard Granddads' heavy footsteps, and then his big head, resplendent with curly white hair, came around the doorway. "Ah, there you are, Sherlock. What're you up to, lad?"

"I'm reading books."

"Are you now? There are some very big books in here." Granddad pulled his old rolling chair from behind the desk and sat down next to Sherlock. "So, lad. Which ones are you looking at, then?"

"I'm starting with that one," said Sherlock, pointing to the first book on the bottom shelf. It had a brown spine and gold lettering.

"Ah. That's a very good book, indeed. So what's that one called?"

"If you know then why are you asking?"

"Cheeky." Granddad ruffled Sherlock's hair. "I know where all the books are in here; I just don't have my glasses on, so, what's the title of the book, then, boy?"

Sherlock turned his head sideways. "All …. Cree … Cre-ah … cre-ah-t-ures. Cre-ah-tures. Creatures. All Creatures … gr … great. All Creatures Great and Small."

"Good lad. Who's it by, then?"

"James Harry-owt."

"Close enough." Granddad looked down at Sherlock. "You need a haircut, lad."

Sherlock scrunched up his face. He was hoping no one would notice. "I don't like haircuts."

"Me neither. They never know how to cut it right."

"I don't like the …" It occurred to Sherlock that he didn't know what they were called. "The things that go buzz."

"The clippers?"

Sherlock absently rubbed the back of his neck. "They go buzz and they tickle, but not a good tickle."

"Ah yes, lad. The clippers. Those nasty clippers." Granddad chuckled. "Why don't you let your old Granddad cut your hair, then?"

"You?"

"Yes, me! You need a haircut before we go to the church tomorrow. Your Gran wouldn't like to see you all scruffy, would she?"

"You don't know how to cut hair, Granddad."

"Again with the cheek. I cut hair on hundreds of heads, lad, as part of my service in the Arayeff. It wasn't all just flying these planes you see around you. Come with me, lad. Let me show you how a proper haircut is handled." Granddad took Sherlock's hand and led him through the old house to the solarium in the back. It wasn't so much a proper solarium as more of a motley collection of stuff. There were some empty pots and other gardening implements on a table, some metal chairs, two pairs of Wellingtons, and a coatrack with rain jackets. In the corner of the room was a large object with sheets over it. Granddad went over to it and pulled the sheets off, revealing a large ornate barber's chair. It was much fancier than any Sherlock had ever seen. It had leather seats and curly wrought iron sides. Granddad gave it a quick wipe-down with the sheets, and then set a board across the arms. "Hop up here, lad, let's get this haircut started."

Sherlock was completely unsure of how to handle this predicament. He was quite sure he didn't want Granddad to cut his hair, but he did promise Father he'd be a good boy. Tentatively, Sherlock climbed up the chair and carefully sat on the board. Granddad shook out one of the sheets and tied it around Sherlock's neck. "Sit tight, lad, I'll be right back." It took all of Sherlock's will to not jump down and hide; he was positive Granddad would cut his hair so terribly that he would end up looking like a mangy dog, and Mycroft would see the result and tease him mercilessly. Granddad returned shortly with a glass of water and a leather roll that was tied up a shoelace. Granddad unrolled the leather package and pulled out a shining pair of scissors. Granddad then pulled out a whetstone and spent several long minutes sharpening the blades. Checking the edge on his thumb, and clucking with satisfaction, Granddad turned his attention on Sherlock, who was staring at him with wide eyes. Granddad smiled slightly and said, "You don't trust me, do you, lad?" Sherlock didn't immediately answer, but then he shook his head _no_. "I can understand, that, lad, sometimes it's very hard to trust people when you have no idea what the outcome will be. But that's a big part of life, lad, to trust people even when you have no reason to. _Especially_ when you have no reason to. So, Sherlock, will you trust me to cut your hair?" Sherlock looked into Granddads' eyes: earnest, and sad, too. Sherlock nodded his assent. Granddad started to comb Sherlock's hair, spending long minutes sectioning the boy's hair and dampening it before even setting scissors to the first cut.

Granddad worked in silence for the first few minutes as Sherlock tried to remain as motionless as possible. But then Granddad began to softly whistle a little tune and Sherlock began to relax. Granddad tilted Sherlock's head this way and that, and then straight down while the hair at the very back was cut. "Don't move, lad," said Granddad as he used a straight razor to trim the little hairs normally cut with clippers. "There, now. I believe you're done." Granddad put his scissors back in the leather roll, and then whisked off the sheet from Sherlock's shoulders with a flourish. "Let's go take a look in Gran's mirror."

Taking Sherlock's hand, Granddad walked Sherlock up to his and Gran's room, where Gran's dressing table and mirror were. All of Gran's face creams, powders, and hairpins were scattered over the top, as if waiting for Gran to return. Sherlock climbed up on the stool and looked at his reflection. His hair was shorter, but not so short that the natural curl kinked up. "What do you think, lad?" asked Granddad. Sherlock looked at Granddad in the mirror and smiled. Granddad struggled down to one knee so his face was level with Sherlock's in the mirror. "You do have a good head of hair there, lad. Gran would be very happy with your haircut. Very happy indeed." Granddad sighed and his eyes turned sad. He picked up a hairpin from the dressing table. "I miss her so much, lad. I loved her so," said Granddad, softly, turning the hairpin over in his fingers.

Sherlock turned on the chair, dismayed to see Granddad with tears in his eyes. Granddad didn't cry; Granddad was in the Arayeff and men in the Arayeff didn't cry. He flung his arms around Granddad in what was possibly the first spontaneous hug he had ever given. "I love my haircut, Granddad. Thank you."

Granddad squeezed him tight. "You're welcome." After a couple of moments, Granddad made a grunting noise and released Sherlock. Granddad scrubbed his face and harrumphed. "You know lad, I don't get to see enough of you. I'll tell you what. I'll come down to visit you more often, and give you a haircut if you need it. My skills are rusty. If you trust me enough to practice on that mop of yours, that is."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, Granddad. I trust you."

Granddad held out his hand and Sherlock shook it. "Yes, Sherlock. Trust. Remember."

"I will remember, Granddad."

"… that holiday in New Zealand, remember?"

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

Sherlock was transported back into the present; Mycroft was standing in front of him, measuring locks of hair over each of Sherlock's ears to make sure they were even. "I was just talking about that holiday we all took in New Zealand. Your hair was so long then. Mummy hated it. Father threatened to let the sheep shearer at the Agridome take the clippers to you."

Sherlock frowned. "I remember the Agridome. I don't remember Father saying that, though."

"You didn't hear him. You were arguing with one of the farmhands about the parentage of one of the sheep in the show."

"I wasn't arguing. I was simply pointing out that the Blue-Faced Leicester they were displaying was obviously part Romney."

Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, Sherlock, just like you to try to prove to a sheep herder that his flock doesn't have pure bloodlines. He was about to set the dogs on you. How old were you then? Eight?"

Eight sounded about right to Sherlock. He thought back to that trip to New Zealand. They had gone during the Christmas holidays to enjoy warm weather and the geo-thermal hot sands beaches. The trip to the Agridome was part of the side trip to Rotarua and all the hot mud geysers. Unfortunately, that trip had to end earlier than planned, quickly returning to York.

Granddad.

Over the years, Granddad had made good on his promise. He came down to Mummy and Father's house about every six weeks, just in time for Sherlock's haircut to become necessary. But now, the whole family was returning to York to bury the man who had suddenly taken ill with congestive heart failure. Granddad died at home, in the bed that he had shared with Gran all those years.

He had never cleared off her dressing table, either.

For a few days before the funeral, Sherlock's family stayed in the old family house, discussing how to divide all of the items within among the family. Sherlock was in Granddads' study, looking at all the books and running his fingers over the spines. All Creatures Great and Small jumped out at him from the bottom shelf, and Sherlock quickly turned away, his eyes resting on a photo of Granddad from his days in the RAF, remembering how Mycroft had finally pointed out to him that Granddad had been in the Royal Air Force, not some weird military group called the Arayeff.

Sherlock heard someone coming up the stairs. He didn't turn around, but he was sure it Mycroft, looking for him. At fifteen, Mycroft thought he knew best as far as Sherlock was concerned. Sure enough, it was Mycroft. "Sherlock?"

"What is it?"

"You need a haircut."

Sherlock spun around, a retort on his lips, when he saw that Mycroft held Granddads' leather kit in his hand. "Why do you have that?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Mum thought you should have it." Sherlock didn't move to take it, however. "You were lucky, you know."

"How's that?"

Mycroft locked eyes with Sherlock. "Granddad never cut _my_ hair." Finally, Mycroft looked away. "I did watch him cut your hair enough times, though. I could probably cut your hair halfway decently, so you'd look better for the funeral. Mum doesn't have time to take you for a haircut before."

"You'd cut my hair?"

Mycroft shrugged again. "It needs to be done." The brothers locked eyes again. "Do you trust me enough to do it?"

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft, being so much older, was not exactly the best example of an older brother, but at least, he was trying. At least right now. And Sherlock, who remembered everything, remembered what Granddad had to say about trust. Finally he said, "Yes, I'll trust you."

The boys went down to the solarium, and the two of them pulled out the enormous and extremely heavy barber chair from the corner. Mycroft and Sherlock took turns sharpening the scissors in the careful way that Granddad taught them, and then Sherlock sat in the chair – now he was tall enough to not need to sit on the board – while Mycroft cut his younger brother's hair.

He did a decent enough job. Sherlock remembered that the hair was longer over one ear than over the other, but Mycroft didn't leave any bald patches. As Sherlock sat in the chair, he realized it was probably the first time Mycroft ever actually touched him, other than the necessary handshakes or hugs forced upon each other by Mummy.

Oddly enough, it was that first haircut that settled a lot of the animosity and mistrust between the two boys, separated as they were by so many years. As the two grew up, if both boys were home, Mycroft's cutting Sherlock's hair became simply part of the schedule for the day. Granddad's antique chair was sold to an antiques seller, but the leather roll of scissors and barber tools remained with Mycroft, although both knew that they belonged specifically to Sherlock.

Mycroft had cleaned the scissors and put them away and was gathering the sheet from around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock pulled his collar out from his shirt and rebuttoned it. He bent over, raking his fingers through his hair roughly to shake out loose clippings. Standing up straight, Sherlock said, "Thank you, Mycroft. It feels much better."

"You're welcome, Sherlock, but we do need to speak of our arrangement regarding these haircuts."

"Arrangement?"

"Don't be cheeky, Sherlock. You know the routine. I cut your hair, you work on a case with Lestrade that I choose as necessary."

Sherlock turned away began donning his coat. "And I have been keeping up my end of that bargain."

"Would that you had, Sherlock." Mycroft picked up a small diary from the desk. "I show here that you are actually four cases behind. You have received four haircuts to the good without remuneration to me of any kind."

Sherlock began arranging his scarf about his neck. "I don't think your records are correct."

Mycroft smirked. "Oh, Sherlock. Don't you _trust_ me?"

Sherlock paused, looking at his brother. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. I will work two cases of your choosing before my next haircut."

"Four."

"Two.

Mycroft scowled. "Three."

"_Two_."

Mycroft sighed this time, tossing his diary on the desk. "Two, then. And you have your haircut, now. Will we see each other again before your next haircut?"

"At least twice more, according to your records. Goodbye, Mycroft." Sherlock swept out the door in his own inimitable milieu.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

When Sherlock returned to Baker Street, John was back upstairs, reading from a large leather volume. "Ah, Sherlock, you're back. Haircut looks good."

"Thank you, John. What are you reading?"

"Um … must be one of yours." John flipped the book closed to look at the cover. "All Creatures Great and Small."

"My Granddads' copy." Sherlock smiled slightly, staring off into the middle space. "James Harry-owt."

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing." Sherlock tossed his scarf and coat on the sofa, and began to walk down the hall, scrubbing the back of his head with his hand as he went.

"You know, you do get good haircuts, Sherlock. Who do you go to? Perhaps I could give them a try."

"Oh, John," said Sherlock, as he opened the door to his room. "You couldn't afford him." And with that, Sherlock entered his room and closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock Holmes®<em> and all characters were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. _Sherlock®_ is owned by the BBC. All Creatures Great and Small was written by James Herriot. Thank you for reading!


End file.
